Page 7 of Dragon’s Rebel

Chapter 3

The intel came through on schedule.

Leaving Thorne to explain their mission to the others, Rebel went up to her room to ready her breaking-and-entering gear, which she’d made Thorne take her back to her house to get a couple of weeks ago.

You never knew when you’d have to break in somewhere. Or break out.

She took the fancy brass and velvet-lined elevator up to the living quarters in the mansion, and headed down the hall to Tyr’s wing.

Because yes, the place was so huge and the dragons were so rich and so solitary that they each had their own wing. Bedrooms, libraries, gyms, entertainment rooms… it was insane.

Rebel’s room was in Tyr’s wing, adjoining her sister’s. Thorne had wanted her in his wing, but she turned him down. There was no way she was leaving Tempest alone in this mausoleum.

And Thorne’s wing would seem cold and empty with no one else in it.

Tyr’s wing was like living in a fancy, old-fashioned hotel. Four-poster beds and heavy mahogany furniture juxtaposed with all the latest amenities, like showers with multiple jets and steam, giant flat-screen TVs, and invisible servants to bring you food and clean up after you.

And gold. The room already had priceless gold ornaments scattered around when she moved in, but now every surface was crowded. Apparently, if you were a dragon trying to court a mate, showering her with golden trinkets was a Thing.

And Thorne did everything by the book. At least, everything dragon-related. Gifts showed up at her door at least once a day, if not more often.

It was enough to make even a thief claustrophobic. She ended up using half of them to stake her poker games. And then she won, giving her more gold. Some of the overflow was now on the display tables by the elevators.

She had her gear spread out on the enormous bed, double-checking everything, when she heard soft knock on her door. The one-two-three one-two-three pattern that Tempest always used.

“Come in,” she called.

Her sister walked in, clutching her sketchbook to her chest. She never went anywhere without a sketchbook or a notebook, to contain her ‘stories.’

The psychiatrists said Tempest had an acute anxiety disorder, where she fixated on bad things that might happen and obsessed over them. A therapist had seen her love of drawing and writing and taught her to write or draw all the versions of an event that she could think of, until she made one where it came out okay.

They believed that the ‘bad things’ Tempest feared would never have happened anyway, and they were just teaching her not to be scared.

Rebel wasn’t so sure.

Sometimes she thought Tempest really could see the future. Maybe even change it. Because all the years they’d been living on the streets, nothing good ever happened when she ignored Tempest’s warnings.

And nothing bad ever happened when she listened.

Now Tempest came in and sat on her bed, her cobalt-blue dragon-print caftan billowing around her. Her frizzy brown hair was clipped back with a dragon-shaped hair clip.

Tempest had always been fascinated by dragons. She drew them, painted them, read about them, wore them—even owned a shop where she sold everything that could possibly be made in the shape of a dragon, or have a dragon printed on it.

Bringing her to a real live dragon lair was beyond kid in a candy store. Not only did she follow Tyr around pestering him with questions about dragons, she borrowed his books on dragon lore, and painted flattering pictures of his dragon that made him more egotistical than he already was.

Now, though, Tempest looked troubled. “Thorne told us about your job tonight.” She glanced at Rebel’s gear. “You can’t go.”

Rebel put her combat vest aside and took Tempest’s hand. “I have to,” she said. “He told you we can get a drug that will turn him human, right? You know how important that is.”

Tempest nodded, but Rebel could see she was still upset. She usually didn’t worry about Rebel’s jobs, no matter how potentially dangerous. But she was clenching her fingers around her sketchbook, and she wouldn’t look Rebel in the eye.

Oh, hell. Had she seen something about Rebel? “What is it?” she asked. She rubbed the back of Tempest’s hand. It was cold. “Tell me.”

Slowly, Tempest opened the sketchbook and laid it on the bed.

It wasn’t about Rebel. It was a picture of three blue dragons, all lying dead in the atrium outside the Batcave.

No. Please, no. “Are there more?” she asked. Tempest nodded again.